Rudyard Kipling 9 below the grassy slopes of Fort Keeling. The tide ran out nearly two miles on that coast, and the many-colored mud-banks, touched by the sun, sent up a lamentable smell of dead weed. It was late in the afternoon when Dick and Maisie arrived on their ground, Amomma trotting patiently behind them. “Mf!” said Maisie, sniffing the air. “I wonder what makes the sea so smelly? I don’t like it!” “You never like anything that isn’t made just for you, said Dick bluntly. “Give me the cartridges, and ll try first shot. How far does one of these little revolvers carry?” “Oh, half a mile,” said Maisie, promptly. “At least it makes an awful noise. Be careful with the cartridges; I don’t like those jagged stick-up things on the rim. Dick, do be careful.” “All right. I know how to load. I'll fire at the breakwater out there.” He fired, and Amomma ran away bleating. The bullet threw up a spurt of mud to the right of the wood-wreathed piles. “Throws high and to the right. You try, Maisie. Mind, it’s loaded all round.” Maisie took the pistol and stepped delicately to the verge of the mud, her hand firmly closed on the butt, her mouth and left eye screwed up. Dick sat down on a tuft of bank and laughed. Amomma returned very cautiously. He was accustomed to strange experiences in his afternoon walks, and, finding the cartridge-box unguarded, made investigations with his nose. Maisie fired, but could not see where the bullet went. “T think it hit the post,” she said, shading her eyes and looking out across the sailless sea. “I know it has gone out to the Marazion Bell-buoy,” said Dick, with a chuckle. “Fire low and to the left; then perhaps you'll get it. Oh, look at Amomma! —